Poem for Writers

A writing friend of mine sent this poem. I think it's exactly on target. Hope you enjoy it.

Many people hear voices

when no one is there.

Some of them are called

mad and are shut up in

rooms where they stare

at the walls all day.

Others are called writers

and they do pretty much

the same thing.

Anonymous

Pit Orchestra

If you look at the title of this post, it seems a little Dante-esque. But it just means the orchestra is playing down below the stage, in the "pit."

Last Friday Calvin and I went to see Crazy for You, a Gershwin musical, because Ariel played in the pit orchestra. The orchestra and the actors/singers/dancers did an amazing job. Here are pictures of Ariel. They had three performances last week and three more this week. After that, hopefully there will be some normalcy. (But probably not.)

Technology Intervention

I have always admitted that I am technologically ignorant. So, when Ariel confronted me about having a blog, I gave her my first line of defense. I don’t like technology. If I’m honest, I view my antipathy as a badge of honor—I am content with those things which have satisfied writers through the ages, i.e., paper and pencils and beautiful pens. In response, she raised an eyebrow, something she’s very skilled at, and reminded me that I love email and that I write my novels on a computer. Clearly, the first point in this discussion goes to the sixteen year old. Time for my second line of defense. I don’t understand how it all works. She raised a second eyebrow (I told you she was skilled at this). “Mom, it’s completely self-explanatory, besides I set one up for you last year. All you have to do is write!” Score two for the daughter with naturally curly hair. Now was the time for my final excuse. “Ariellll, my blog is ugly…” She looked down her cute little nose at me. “Mom, you’re whining.” Then, she proceeded to explain/lecture me how a writer in the 21st century needed to take advantage of the new methods of communication. Finally, she ended with, “I’ll make your blog more attractive, but then you have to promise to write more often.” I promised I’d write at least once a week. I can’t help but wonder if this is a foreshadowing of thirty years from now when she’ll be saying, “Mom, now take your heart medicine like you promised the doctor…” Sigh.

P.S. If you enjoy reading this or like the way the blog looks, I guess you should tell Ariel. :-)

Math

I am a bit bemused by the title of this post. How is it that I’m writing about math?! But I live in a home of mathematicians. No, not my husband. He’s with me—two art-loving humanities type people who ended up with four math-loving children. I’m still not sure how it happened. We read together as a family—we still do. They get assigned all the classics: Homer, Hemingway, Austen, etc. When I bemoan the fact, Luke says to me, “Mom, we love Shakespeare. It’s really the best you can hope for.”
I’m still assigning the kids lots of reading—the younger boys are making their way through the Odyssey now. When someone mentioned the volume of reading, Jacob said, “Yeah, it’s amazing how much you can read when you don’t sweat comprehension.” UGH. Somebody pass me the smelling salts, quick.

P.S. Please note the prefered subject is everywhere--calculators, graph paper, math books, economics, etc.

Capture

Last night around midnight, Luke heard a noise, then another noise and another. He tiptoed out of his room (okay, Luke doesn't tiptoe--he's more like a mastadon, but you get the idea) and woke up Ariel. In the darkness they surrounded Oswald, flipped on the lights, and captured him.

Later, during Oswald's interrogation (which did not involved torture, merely the dangling of honey-coated bird treats in front of his nose), Luke and Ariel discovered that Oswald had set up his base of operations under Luke's dresser. And, though Oswald did not protest during his arrest, he was furiously chewing the bars of his cage this morning. Luke believes Oswald spent his time on the lam recruiting other creatures in his bid for world domination. So we'll have to see what other creatures try to escape. Our spy network has told us that Jezebel was recruited, but she refused to participate--Oswald couldn't better her current arrangements of four square meals, a warm bed, plenty of bones, and a two and half mile run over the hills three times a week. Besides Jezzie thought Oswald's secret code was a bit over the top.

Escape

The other day, Ariel's hamster Oswald escaped from his cage during the night--he knocked the cage onto the floor, the wheel broke off the cage, and he hightailed it. How Ariel slept through this all is rather mystifying. And we haven't seen any sign of him since. Luke talks about Oswald breaking free to mate with rats and then discusses of the possibility of hunting ham-rats in the basement, Cal talks about a tasty treat for Jezebel (our five month old black Lab), Jacob talks about the lights dimming as Oswald chews through electrical wires, and Matt mentions seeing the phantasm of poor, dear Oswald. Ariel "patiently" ignores it all.

Personally, I believe that Oswald is a secret agent who has been "placed" in our home to spy out the secret goings on--who gets up for a midnight snack and leaves the pizza out on the counter, who leaves legos/dining room chairs/violin cases in the middle of the floor to be tripped over, and who gets up and secretly transmits coded messages about world domination and demands a new knuckle bone.

Literary Dinner Party

Literary Dinner Party

by Connie Keller

Several months ago I was invited to the Great Fiction Literary Banquet held every two years by the Canon of Literature. Now, of course, you may be wondering why I was invited; after all, I haven’t contributed anything to the canon—in fact, not a single novel I’ve written has even been published. I could argue that some of the greatest works of fiction remain unpublished and that my work belongs to that category. But, the truth of the matter is that I stole an invitation that had been addressed to Emily Brontё. And I don’t feel too bad about it—who in their right mind thinks that Wuthering Heights should belong to the Canon? If it hadn’t been written a few decades too soon, it would have belonged to the Harlequin romance genre.

In any case, I arrived at the banquet clutching Emily’s invitation. A butler met me in the foyer, and I handed him my invitation. He read it, nearly raised an eyebrow and said, “Good Evening, Madame.”

I would know that “Good Evening, Madame,” anywhere. “Jeeves,” I asked, “is that you?”

“Mr. Woodhouse was good enough to allow me to assist in the festivities,” he answered.

“Is he here—Mr. Woodhouse, I mean,” I asked.

“I regret not. He is currently being pursued by a bevy of aunts.”

“’Like mastodons bellowing across primeval swamps,’” I quoted.

“Precisely, Madame,” he said and escorted me to the drawing room.

After we arrived, he asked, “And next to whom would you prefer to dine?”

I scanned the cavernous room. In one corner was Will Shakespeare. Surely, he’d make a superb dinner companion. I could ask him how he learned to write in iambic pentameter. Or, I could tell him how much I loved Much Ado about Nothing and ask him what he thought about Emma Thompson in the role of Beatrice. I was just about to tell Jeeves that my choice was Will, but then I saw him guffaw wildly and slosh his cosmopolitan all over George Elliot (she was none too happy and ticked Will off). It occurred to me that Will was a bit too in love with himself and would probably spill a glass of cabernet on my silk blouse during dinner. Will was out.

I was about to ask Jeeves for a recommendation when he said, “Please excuse me. I see the Misters Hemmingway and Joyce trying to break in through a window—they try every year.”

“But don’t you invite them?” I asked and watched two giddy faces pressed against the window.

He shook his head, sadly. “We did, once—they imbibed all the port, pinched Madame Bradstreet on the backside, and purloined the silver. Besides, their table manners are appalling. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Joyce was unable to keep his personal pronouns straight; he kept referring to himself as “he” and “you.” Unfortunately, it gave Signore Dante a migraine, and he threatened to include us all in the third circle if those gentlemen were ever allowed sup with us again. Needless to say, Misters Joyce and Hemmingway have not received an invitation since,” Jeeves finished as he straightened his gloves and stiffened his spine.

“Wise decision,” I murmured as he hurried away, and I made a mental note not to sit next to Mr. Alighieri. I wondered how long I had to come up with a dinner partner. I saw Dorothy Sayers walk by. She’d be great, but the truth was that it wasn’t Dorothy I wanted to sit with, it was Lord Peter Wimsey. She might lecture me on Roman Catholic theology. She was out too.

“Hello, my dear,” I heard whispered into my ear. “Loved your last book, truly set the standard, don’t you know.” I turned to find out who the liar was. He pressed a double olive martini into my hand. “Drink up—it’s all free. I’ll keep you well-supplied. I’m looking for a dinner companion and I think you’ll do.”

“Thank you, Lord Byron,” I answered and took a sip. His eyes lingered on the neckline of my blouse. I buttoned the top button and didn’t care if it made me look like a librarian. The thought of dinner with the Lord of Learing made me finish the martini in one big gulp.

“Well done. Let me get you another.”

“Oh, Lord Byron,” I said, “by the way, I heard there’s a women’s reading group waiting for you in the carriage house.”

“Modern women?” he asked.

I nodded and added, too quietly for him to hear, “from a women’s study program at Wellesley.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and tossed back the last of his martini. “I love modern women, literally. Ha Ha.”

He swept away, but I figured I’d laugh last.

But then I saw the butler coming toward me. I needed a dinner choice, now. I skimmed the crowd and dismissed Poe, too weird, Dickenson, ditto, and Thoreau—a grown man who brings his laundry home for his mother to wash is not a good dinner companion. Then I saw a dear friend. She wore a modest gown and had mousy brown hair. I walked over to her as she asked the bartender for a small glass of sherry.

“Ah, Bacchus, make that two. Anyone who rids us not only of Emily but also of Byron deserves a sherry.”

“Well, thank you,” I answered and took a sip.

“Anytime, dear,” she replied. “Come now, let’s hurry to the table. Jeeves always saves the best seat for me—he has five nieces and I’ve promised to find husbands for them all. After all, I took care of the Bennetts’ daughters.”

“But they weren’t all good marriages,” I pointed out.

She winked at me. “They weren’t all good girls, were they?”

“No,” I smiled and knew I’d found my dinner companion.